


The Edge of Glory

by longwhitecoats



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Begging, Cunnilingus, Edging, Fisting, Other, PWP, Seriously this is just porn, What are friends for if not writing custom pornography?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 23:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20554340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: “All right,” Crowley said, suddenly reaching forward. He grasped Aziraphale's wrists and pulled them away, to noises of consternation. “All right. Here's what we’re going to do. You want me to do what I do bessst?” He flicked his tongue out, and Aziraphale nodded weakly. “Thenyoudon't,” he said. “You hold yourself back. Don't let yourself do it.”





	The Edge of Glory

“Don’t, my love, don’t—oh saints,” Aziraphale panted as Crowley peeled away the last of his angelic dignity along with his undergarments. “You know what I'm like when I—there are _customers_ downstairs, it's the middle of the _day—_”

“Well, If you really want me to ssstop,” Crowley hissed from between his thighs, forked tongue dripping hot venom over Aziraphale’s already wet quim. “If you’re ssso worried…” He flicked the tip of his tongue softly up the hollow where Aziraphale’s thigh met his sex. “The lights are on anyway. It's day. No one’s even going to sssee.”

Aziraphale laid a shaky palm to his forehead, quite aware of how dramatic he must look, waistcoat flung open, half-naked, being ravaged on an attic _chaise longue _that had not seen such service since he'd stolen it from a favorite molly house while Crowley was having a nap. “You remember what happened in Calais—”

“You were _glorious_ in Calais,” Crowley groaned. “Unforgettable, that one.”

“Darling, really—”

“All right,” Crowley said, abruptly somber. “If you're really worried, I won't.”

Aziraphale made a whimper so high pitched that three dogs in a nearby street felt uncomfortable.

Crowley glared at him, golden eyes ablaze. He sat back on his haunches, leather pants creaking. “Well, what, angel? Do you want me to or not?”

“Oh, heaven, yes,” Aziraphale moaned, slipping his own fingers between his legs and slicking them back and forth.

“That's not fair.”

“I can't help it,” Aziraphale whispered. His cheeks were pink. “You make me so hot.”

“All right,” Crowley said, suddenly reaching forward. He grasped Aziraphale's wrists and pulled them away, to noises of consternation. “All right. Here's what we’re going to do. You want me to do what I do bessst?” He flicked his tongue out, and Aziraphale nodded weakly. “Then _you_ don't,” he said. “You hold yourself back. Don't let yourself do it.”

“Oh Crowley, my love,” Aziraphale said, blushing as he understood what Crowley meant, “I don't know that even an angel has that much willpower. Not—not under your—ministrations.”

“What's the opposite of ‘ministrations,’ I wonder?” Crowley murmured, sliding his hands under his lover’s buttocks to pull him forward. He considered Aziraphale’s quim, running his fingers lightly over it until his attentions produced gasps. “Like a hothouse flower,” he mused. “Orchi-strations, perhaps?”

“You _know_ I detest lowbrow witticisms—ah!” Crowley slipped a finger inside him and began to curl it gently. “Though admittedly, that was more clever than most.”

“Do we have a bargain, angel?” Crowley said, his lips now venturing onto Aziraphale’s stomach, where he planted soft kisses laced with flickers of his tongue.

“Yes, yes, for heaven’s sake yes,” Aziraphale cried. “Darling, please.”

“Oh, not for their sake, angel,” Crowley said. “For mine, really.” And then he lowered his mouth.

The first touch of Crowley’s tongue made Aziraphale half sit up in shock. It had been so long since Crowley had done this (since anyone had, but let that pass—) and Aziraphale had forgotten the _heat_, the utter overwhelming heat of Crowley’s lips and tongue, beyond all mortal extremes. The wet, soft explorations of that tongue made him moan and shudder. It felt like a candle flame passing over, sudden piercing heat and teasing cool in its wake. He felt the pressure inside him begin to crest, but as his thighs tensed around Crowley’s ears, the heat receded.

“Crowley!” he said, too much in disarray to stop himself from being petulant. “Darling, why did you stop?”

“Sshhh,” Crowley whispered, and he had the audacity to _pat_ Aziraphale’s quim with his free hand. The sheer nerve—!

“Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I was rather enjoying that—”

Crowley chuckled, low in his throat, and something deep inside Aziraphale trembled. _This is what it means to be at a demon’s mercy_, he thought.

“That's the idea, angel. Enjoy it. Just not too much.”

This quip was accompanied by two more fingers, and Aziraphale swore vividly, feeling himself contract and flutter, so close to the edge with barely any touch at all.

“Oh, you’ll have to hold out much longer than this, angel,” Crowley warned. “_Fuck_, you're wet. I could get my whole hand in you, I bet.”

“Sixpence,” Aziraphale retorted, a bit weakly. “Sixpence says you can't.”

Crowley made no reply; he simply turned his attention to the engorged pearl of pleasure in front of him, and began to suck.

Electricity shot from Aziraphale’s sex throughout his body, effusing warmth in every limb. Crowley’s cheeks were hollowed with effort, and he punctuated his suction with flickers of his tongue. Aziraphale groaned and bit his own knuckles, feeling his hips spread sluttishly and Crowley’s fingers slide that much deeper inside him.

“Oh god,” Aziraphale swore. “Oh god—oh please don't stop, please, darling, please—”

Cool air washed over him; Crowley was sitting up, grinning like a cat with cream. He was undulating his hips, and Aziraphale sat up to see that his free hand was rubbing at his trousers.

“That is not fair,” Aziraphale growled, but Crowley simply answered him with a kiss, hot and wet with Aziraphale’s own slickness, and the feeling of fingers deep in his quim and a thick tongue deep in his throat was nearly enough.

But not quite. He whimpered as Crowley sat back, regarding him with a wicked look.

“Please, darling,” he said simply.

Crowley shrugged. “You agreed, angel. I'm not the one who was worried.” He began to move his hand again, building that delicious pressure, and Aziraphale made a small sobbing noise, desperate for that mouth to return. “It is dusk, I should tell you. It’ll be proper dark soon.”

“I don't care,” Aziraphale said. “Let them see. Please. Darling. I—I beg of you.”

The noise Crowley made at that sang in Aziraphale's blood. It was a noise of pure desire. “Beg me more, angel,” he said, his other hand obviously working hard. “Beg me so prettily—”

“Please, my love,” Aziraphale said, sinking a hand into Crowley’s hair as he returned to his task, “my darling, my only, the only—no one else has ever made me feel like this, set me on _fire_ like this, oh please—ahh—”

Crowley’s thumb and fourth finger slipped in too, knuckles pressing hard. “More, angel, more.”

“You’re all I want,” Aziraphale babbled, hardly knowing what he said as that tongue lapped over his pearl with the fervor and heat of a bonfire, “you’re all I've ever wanted—you, filling me, burning me up inside—please, my love, please—”

“Not yet,” Crowley said, “not yet, just bear down,” and _pushed_.

Aziraphale gasped as he felt himself _give_, and the whole of Crowley’s fist slid inside him. He felt so sticky filthy hot all over, he had a demon _inside_ him, trapped within him, he couldn't get him out, and something about that was—was just—

“Not yet, angel,” Crowley warned, a rising tone in his voice suggesting that they were both losing control of the situation, “just a little more—”

“I can't, I can't, just—” and he felt the fork in Crowley’s tongue settle on his pearl and begin to _vibrate_, and he lost track of any elocution of which he might have been capable. He was lost utterly in the pressure of Crowley’s fist, the wet heat of his mouth, the desperation he felt, on the verge of soreness now, and he heard someone babbling in sacred tongues and it was him—

“Now, angel,” Crowley said. “Come for me—now.” And he pulled out his fist, all at once.

“Oh god—oh—oh Crowley!” Aziraphale cried.

And then it happened.

From the street it looked like a floodlight; pedestrians covered their eyes and told themselves, later on, that a helicopter must have passed overhead.

From the foot of the _chaise longue_, where Crowley knelt, it looked like an explosion in slow motion, seen from space. Aziraphale’s whole being unfolded, wings slamming into bookcases, beams of pleasure radiating out in visible shocks of glittering light, limbs trembling and eyes wide open as his several mouths sounded their angelic joy.

When he came to, Crowley was holding him.

“Are you all right, angel?” Crowley said. “That one nearly took the roof off.”

“Am I all right,” Aziraphale laughed. “Yes. I'm quite all right.”

Crowley grinned fondly. “As good as Calais?”

Aziraphale sighed happily, reaching for the bottle of scotch he kept somewhere hereabouts. “Better, my love,” he said. “And worth the wait.”

“And the sixpence?”

“And the sixpence.”

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to [Pearwaldorf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf) for a lightning-fast beta! <3
> 
> V I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY, I DID THE THING


End file.
